


Riding The Red Tide

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Body Horror, Gender Dysphoria, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Misogyny, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Menstruation, Meteorstuck, Nooks, Nudity, Other, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Trans Character, Trans Dave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6064056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Menstruation stops for no man. Karkat and Dave have an impromptu feelings jam in a flooded bathroom. Somehow, it helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Riding The Red Tide

Worse things have probably happened to some other Dave in an offshoot, immaterial timeline or alternative universe dreambubble somewhere. Given your bloodstained pants and general lack of knowledge regarding female biology, you’re having a little trouble imagining just what could possibly trump your current predicament. 

A hundred images flash before your eyes, two hundred memes, and countless jokes that undermine a woman’s ability to lead based sheerly on what’s dripping down your legs this very moment. Your brain supplies a neverending stream of euphemisms, including but not limited to “shark week,” and “riding the red tide.” You’ve said both at least twice to Rose and Jade, separately. It was funny then, and it’s funny now. You’d be laughing this very moment if you weren’t already crying. (You’ve got limited emotional capacity around this time of the month.)

The tiles on the floor start to look like a maze if you stare long enough. You can barely feel the chill from the toilet seat pressing against your bare thighs. Running water plays like a rhythmic backdrop to your distress, soaking your pants and underwear crumpled in a heap in the sink. Droplets of blood fall into the porcelain below and dilute the water pink. Your stomach lurches. This is the first time the sight of your own blood has made you want to vomit. Dead Daves got nothing on your menstruating predicament. 

You can’t stop thinking about that [commercial](https://youtu.be/2tufXp1Of6g), the one where an adorable heterosexual couple’s date is almost ruined no thanks to a pesky quarter sized hole in their canoe. The woman plugs the leak with a tampon, and the camera pans out on the couple laughing like it’s an advertisement for medicinal marijuana and not a swab of cotton you’re expected to shove up your snatch. Besides, the real message is clear: vaginas ruin everything. You’re more than inclined to agree.

The thought of shoving anything inside your whatever is cringe worthy enough that you can’t consider it at all. What other option exists? You can recall the audio for an advertisement for pads with “wings.” They looked a lot less like angels and more like diapers. You wonder if Davesprite has to deal with this. You try not to wonder if that means Jade already knows. You lean your head against the dent on the stall wall. You rarely use the communal bathrooms, and with good reason. What exactly does everyone else get up to in here? (You’re one to judge.)

“Yeah, you bedazzled asslamp, I don’t need my moirail to escort me to the bathroom. Thanks for your concern.”

The face behind the voice materializes in your brain before the door swings open. The sound of running water becomes deafening. You consider darting for the door but you know there’s no way you’d even make it out of the stall in time, much less past Karkat. Staring at your kneecaps, you consider pulling your feet up onto the toilet seat and hiding altogether. The space between the floor and the stall gives you a clear view of Karkat’s shoes as he treads through water. 

His voice is hoarse. “What the fuck?” The faucet squeaks as he turns it off. “Is someone in here or have I just become janitorial staff in addition to leader of this shitty hunk of space rock?”

There’s a brief silence where all you can hear is water sloshing underneath his shoes. You don’t breathe, fingers twisted around each other in hopes he’ll leave.

“Of course. I don’t know what I expected. Some asshole just decided to--” plop “I don’t know, spill cherry faygo all over and just--” splash, “Leave this disgusting mess for some unsuspecting chump like me to come along and clean up?” 

Disgusting? Can’t argue with him there. The lower half of your body looks like the aftermath of a crime scene. Cherry faygo would be a welcome mess in lieu of this. You try not to think about how he’ll react when he finds out he’s wading through the lining of your uterus, and not cherry red sodapop.

“Probably Terezi…” Karkat grumbles to himself in confusion. “No wonder Gamzee wanted to walk me to the load gaper…”

Karkat’s words fade into a string of self-loathing rage as he sloshes around in the water just a few feet away. You slowly pull your legs up until you can rest your chin on your knees. Air isn’t filling your lungs quite the way it should be, and your heart is sputtering in your chest like a beached fish. A crunch is followed by a curse, and you know your shades are ruined. You don’t even react. At this point it’s just icing on the proverbial shit cake. 

“Strider?” Realization dawns on him slowly as usual. “Holy fucksucking shit, is this blood?”

The door next to you swings open with a loud clang as Karkat walks down the row of stalls. You swallow as the impact hits your door, denting the metal lock. He may be the weakest of the trolls, but he’s definitely strong enough to break the poorly alchemized metal. Eyes crammed closed, you press your nails into the flesh of your palms. This is how Karkat catches you when he swings open the door: crouched over a toilet half dressed with tears welling in your eyes. 

“Fuck you,” is the first thing you tell him, before surging forward to shove his body against the opposing wall. 

“What the hell?” Karkat looks startled for a split second. “Fuck you!”

Ambush may have given you an edge, but Karkat is a tense bundle of nerves poised to trigger like an impatient landmine. Karkat braces his shoulders on the wall, twisting around to reverse your positions. The two of you are nearly matched in height, but his body is twice as dense and weighted like a rock. His fingers loosen around your shoulders when he glances down.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re bleeding.” His voice is wrought with disbelief and almost something else, maybe. “What the hell happened here?” Karkat doesn’t give you enough time to formulate a response before continuing his tangent. “You just rode into the communal load gaper with a broken ass and thought, hey, I’ll dress my wounds in the sink and flood the floor. That’ll fucking work.”

You try tugging the hem of your t-shirt a little further down your thighs without looking like a complete pussy. Karkat’s eyes are nothing short of pitying so you figure it was a total failure.

“Just get out,” you tell him through clenched teeth. 

Karkat’s eyes widen, and enough time passes that you think he might actually be considering it. He’s not. “Not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

Something in your stomach drops.

“Seriously, what the fuck,” he says again.

It isn’t even a question. You keep telling yourself you’re lucky that it was Karkat and not Terezi or Vriska. If the clown walked in you might have projectile vomited, and worst of all would’ve been Rose, with her sweeping gaze of concern and condescension. In the back of your mind there’s a voice encouraging you to lie, and if only you could find the right words you could convince Karkat that everything about your biology isn’t a total non-binary trainwreck on a doomed trip towards dysphoria-ville.

“Did someone do this to you?” he asks next, and now that he’s mentioned it you’re kind of wondering--did someone? Maybe this is all Bro’s fault. 

Isn’t total responsibility for the entire fabric of reality enough? Was the extra dollop of body horror and self disgust a necessary topping on your shit sundae? You doubt there’s a god up there, and if there is, he isn’t at all like Morgan Freeman and you doubt he’s paused long enough to give you more than a backwards glance. And if there is a god, you figure he needs to implement some new regulations on whatever fucked up spiritual assembly line cranked you out with such a discordant set of genitalia. 

Karkat’s backed up to give you some space, and now he’s just waving his arms around like a wacky wavy inflatable arm flailing tube man. Total meltdown, or whatever. Kind of stealing your spotlight here. Each guess becomes more outlandish than the last. 

“Did you alchemize your genitals trying to make apple juice and, and--” And what? Accidentally lop off your dick in the process? At any rate, it’s close enough to his next guess. “Holy shit fuck--did your bulge get ripped off or is this some kind of third stage inoperable crotchrot--” 

Time to dispel all rumors regarding human genitalia. John is never going to forgive you. “I never had one.”

There’s a precious moment where Karkat doesn’t speak. His nostrils flare when he eyes the blood drying on your thighs. You kind of wish he would stop doing that. “But you--what about your crotch dachshund, the beef truncheon, the fucking--naked spam porpoise!” He shakes his finger in your face like he can’t believe someone lied to him. On the internet.

Waiting for him to finish is your first mistake. “You’re telling me the dicks you graffitied all over my books weren’t even self-portraiture?” Dude has clearly done his research. Probably streamed porn for women and claimed he was watching it for the plot. “I thought human guys had this mammal type external squishbag that flops around.” He does a poor imitation of a schlong swaying in the breeze that almost ruins your record for world’s longest frown.

“They do.” You’re the weirdo, same as always, same old bullshit.

“Then why do you have a--the other thing?” Karkat flails his arms around in a vague gesture that doesn’t resemble anything like communication. You can relate.

“Cause I’m a human fucking girl I guess? I don’t know.” You imagine throwing your hands in the air because that is how absolutely fucking done you are with your ovaries or uterus or whatever it is that is twisting into a knot below your bellybutton. You don’t do that, because nonchalance is as trained into your bones as denial.

“That’s fucking ridiculous Dave,” Karkat says flippantly. Almost like what you said has no logical grounds and makes no sense.

Karkat doesn’t always call you by your last name but right now when you’re not wearing any pants first name basis feels more intimate than you’re comfortable with. Hearing your name is reassuring though, like duh, of course you aren’t a fucking girl. What kind of girl is named Dave, even as a joke? He seems irritated that you ever suggested otherwise. 

“I am not going to have ‘the talk’ with you right now,” you warn him. 

The chill in the room is really starting to get to you and contrary to your dying prayers the flow between your legs hasn’t slowed. Avoiding eye contact with Karkat isn’t worth it when you watch dark red droplets spread across your feet.

Impressively, Karkat doesn’t shift his attention. “This wasn’t in any of the videos I watched,” he admits.

“No, it wouldn’t be.” You try to imagine the sick kind of porn that involves menstruation. An image of Karkat with his face smeared in red crosses your mind, and your dick shrivels up a little. Metaphorically, you mean.

Karkat appears undeterred. Interested, even. “Is this like a moult?” He always was riding the cross cultural exchange train. No sloppy interspecies makeouts your ass. “Some transitional biological process?”

Except every month for the rest of your life until your body decides you’re no longer fit to bear children. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Excuse me?” Karkat’s fangs are crooked. “Am I hearing you right?” You’ve never been close enough to notice that before. “You’re telling me you know exactly fuckall and bar none about your own species?” Karkat actually throws his hands in the air. “So you don’t know why this is happening, but you're abso-fucking-lutely positive that it’s normal to be leaking blood from your nook?”

Dave doesn’t trust the entire process himself, but he doesn’t have a choice in the matter. “Yes.”

“Fuck, that’s--and you have the nerve to say troll biology is weird? To what means--are you going to grow an adult coat?” Karkat’s got you there, but you can’t remember contesting that troll biology was ever weirder than their romantic system. 

Somehow, Karkat’s bewilderment makes this whole thing feel more normal than it should. “I’m not a dog. It’s more like...a fertility thing, I guess.”

When Karkat covers his mouth you wish he was a little less expressive. “Fertility as in egg laying? Breeding?” Karkat crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Egbert beat you to the joke, I know human egg-laying isn’t a real thing.”

It dawns on you that you don’t actually know how to answer his questions. “It’s like...the opposite of fertility?” That’s a really fantastic explanation, you think. 

Karkat seems to agree. “The opposite of fertility? Is that an actual biological function your species developed? Are you kidding me?” 

That’s marginally closer to the truth, you think. There’s a hazy memory somewhere of an in-depth explanation from Rose. You’re starting to think she may already know. All you can remember is that mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell. “Like, dead eggs, I guess,” you say absently. Karkat mirrors your internal horror. “They’re not fertilized.”

Karkat cringes, pity or sympathy? Equally repulsive. “Does it hurt?” Karkat asks, and you allow yourself to wonder, too.

It kind of fucking does. A lot. You don’t want to look like this much of a girl, but you also aren’t up on your shit enough to know exactly how normal this is. You shake your head no and your insides cramp up extra on purpose. Karkat makes a face like he thinks you’re a shit liar and he doesn’t believe you.

“You’re a shit liar and I don’t believe you,” he says.

You shrug. “It was worth a shot.”

“This is weird,” Karkat says, giving you some space. “Your genitalia isn’t matching up with your...” You wait for him to invalidate your entire existence, the way your vagina always does. Instead he struggles to speak and his face turns red. “Everything I know about humans says guys don’t have nooks!” Karkat gets impatient before you can tease him about where exactly he’s viewed crotch shots. 

Another shrug where you wish you had shades to avoid his gaze. “Sometimes they do.”

Karkat seems unsatisfied. “Sometimes they do?” You don’t know why but your body keeps bracing for a blow. Karkat looks guilty when you flinch. “Are you telling me human genitalia has nothing to do with arbitrary gender roles you try to impose from infancy until death?”

You nod. “It’s pretty fucked up.”

Silence hangs in the air like dead weight before Karkat releases a sigh of relief. “Thank god. This makes so much more sense than the shit Egbert’s been feeding me.”

His casual acceptance of convoluted gender politics doesn’t really make you feel any better. He’s an alien, therefor his bizarre social norms need not apply. Karkat can’t understand your dysphoria anymore than you understand the quadrants. This secret was completely yours, and now standing here without your shades, without your pants, without a dick, you feel completely exposed. At the risk of sounding like a damsel in distress, possibly even violated. You wonder how society’s moralistic bullshit can even matter when the total human population is less than twenty and you’re hurtling on a meteor through space in a game you’ve already lost.

“Look,” Karkat says pragmatically. He removes a chair from his sylladex and locks it between the floor and the doorknob. Why didn’t you think of that? Another chair flies from across the room. It makes a gross sound in the water as it drags against the tile. How many chairs does Karkat have in there? You can’t believe he still relies on such an archaic inventory style. He straddles the chair and presses his fingertips together like a sixty-nine year old psychotherapist. “Having a nook doesn’t make you a girl,” Karkat assures you like he’s a professional sexologist.

“Well having a vagina does,” you say defensively. “It’s like, the main qualifier.”

Karkat makes a face like you just declared your vote for Donald Trump over Thanksgiving dinner. “Don’t be a transphobic bitch,” he says. “That logic is invalid.” Karkat slides off the chair. “Am I a girl?”

You feel like you just took a money shot of stun spore to the face. “What?” You kind of get where Karkat is going with this but you’re still surprised when he actually takes it there. This is more drama than an episode of Degrassi: Next Generation. Talk about a show that goes there.

Karkat grips the waistband of his pants, eyes narrowed decisively. “I’ll prove it.”

“Prove what?” Who are you kidding? You’re just trying to buy yourself time to process, thirty seconds even. Your mouth unravels like a fruit rollup, sticky around the edges. You’re trying hard not to think about what it will mean once you’ve seen whatever alien junk Karkat has been smuggling in his pants. “That you’re just looking for an excuse to whip out your banana hammock--” The sentence crashes and burns like a Nic Cage film before you can even finish, no pun intended. 

Karkat is smoother between his legs than you are, flat gray and totally hairless. Definitely not a regular dude. You already knew that, but it’s impossible to ignore biological differences when the evidence is staring at you from between his legs. There’s no discernable bone, bulge, or tentacle in sight. It’s fucking you up so bad you forget you have one of your own dripping like an infected wound down your thighs. You hide your own juicebox under two inches of wiry pubic hair, it feels more manly that way. Pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain. But this isn’t anything like the gash below your hips. 

This is like a whole other thing. “It’s like...a pussy,” you say reverently. Crouching down to get a closer look has Karkat completely scandalized. “Alien pussy,” you confirm.

“A what?” Karkat takes a step back. “It’s not a pussy it’s a nook, and also fuck you.” Karkat moves to yank his pants back up but you stop him with a hand around his wrist. Karkat wrenches himself away, face on fire. “Keep your hands to yourself, Strider. I didn’t say you could touch.”

You’re not sure what came over you. “Sorry,” you say, but the apology doesn’t feel like much. 

There’s an awkward silence that threatens to destroy whatever it is you’re trying to salvage. Karkat doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls his pants the rest of the way up and your bliss is broken by the humiliating reminder that you’re just standing in front of Karkat, waving your vagina around like you’re part of a bloodletting ritual. 

“Yeah well, you’re forgiven. Okay?”

After everything that’s happened, it feels anticlimactic. “Okay,” you say. “So that’s it?” 

The space between the two of you has shrunk, and for a moment, you don’t even feel weird about it. “This has to be some kind of a pale setup,” he says, and that moment is gone.

You don’t know what that means. More quadrant bullshit. This probably means you two are polyamorous gay best friend xenosexual life partners or something. Or maybe that’s the other box. Here you go, thinking about Karkat’s box again. That’s definitely a bad sign. “That’s gay,” you tell him. Or maybe you’re just telling yourself. You’re already preparing for Rose to wave her victory in your face. It must be the genetics. Gay genes. Gay jeans. Heh.

Karkat looks like he could use an aspirin and a shot of espresso. Did you say part of that out loud, or were you just standing here staring at him in silence? Either way, it’s kind of fucked up. He sighs deeply. “How can it be gay if you’re a girl?”

Without meaning to, you let the truth slip. “I’m not a girl.” Rose will call it a Freudian Slip. You’ll call her pretentious. For the first time, you realize this is all going to work out. 

Karkat’s grin is surprisingly unguarded. “Glad to hear it.” He sends the chair back into the captchalogue like an afterthought. “So I’m not a girl, you’re not a girl,” he waves his hand around the empty bathroom. “Nobody here is a girl,” Karkat reiterates. You never realized how much he talks with his hands. It’s kind of cute in an Italian catholic priest at the pulpit sort of way. You could get into that.

“Your gender is here,” Karkat says as he presses a finger to your skull. You feel all warm and fuzzy in your kokoro. 

You salvage your self-esteem by souring the mood. “Right,” Dave agrees. “Except you,” he presses his index finger into Karkat’s chest, over his heart. “Pussy.” Karkat stares at your finger and if he’s thinking what you’re thinking then he’s thinking you just might be a total faggot. He’s probably not thinking that, since you already know he’s a weird pansexual alien dude with a cunt. Still, it’s nice to fantasize. 

Whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t say. He pushes your finger away. “Now I’m not going tell you how to get the stains out.” You want to ask Karkat why he knows how to get bloodstains out of clothes but you don’t want to ruin the moment.

“What are the chances you have another pair of pants in there?”

“For you?” Karkat gives you the finger then folds it down. “Zero.” 

Things are better after that. At least, until next month.


End file.
